


come back, oh lover

by philthestone



Category: Outlander (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, F/M, Gen, Rebellion Era (Star Wars), alderaan is not really space scotland but im making my own rules here, allusions to star wars flavoured action and violence, also claire and jamies hilarious accidental-outlaw couple energy, but also me @ me agent kallus sweetie how dare she make that comparison, canon timeline roughly s1-2, currently-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-law jamie, everything i know abt the isb is from sw rebels, its about the selflessness of the love, jedi healer claire, listen. you all know who i am ive been thinking of this for months, my favourite part of this fic is casting animal companions as droids with personalities, pilot jamie, technically should-have-been-a-senator, these tags are getting away from me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: It’s kind of funny, really, that after ten years of running, the person who gets Claire believing in the Force again doesn’t have a drop of Force sensitivity in him.Well — it’s funny until the visions of doom start. Then it’s just inconvenient.
Relationships: Alex Randall/Mary Hawkins Randall, Claire Beauchamp & Adso, Claire Beauchamp & Geillis Duncan, Claire Beauchamp & Master Raymond, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Jamie Fraser & Fergus Fraser, Jamie Fraser & Murtagh Fraser, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 33





	come back, oh lover

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my most niche au
> 
> ive been working on this for a while and in a swoop of terrible judgement decided it should be posted in 2 parts. here is the first! i'll put some notes at the end, but honestly, i dont have much of an explanation. i just thought it would be really fun.
> 
> the title is from "trees on the mountains" by rhiannon giddens, one of my absolute FAVOURITE songs and, while this has been just for fun, it's also a labour of love and this month has been long and very stressful, so i'd love to hear all of your thoughts! part two is plotted out but as yet unwritten -- look forward to seeing it in the next couple weeks <3 enjoy!
> 
> edit I changed the summary bc I posted this at one am last night which was a bad choice all around for writing summaries

Five men and a droid sit uncomfortably in a darkened, shadowy office. 

Of the five, the highest ranking sits straight-backed in a chair behind a desk -- grey. A younger man, fair-haired and rosy-cheeked even in the poor lighting, stands to his right. To his left, the third: squared, stiff shoulders and the pressed uniform of a Bureau agent, leaning slightly on one leg with an oddly-familiar bent of menacing insolence. A trooper stands guard at the door. He’s of specific call-sign and trained to know better than to speak; intelligence offices have rather different protocol from the more straightforward drudgery of keeping the rest of the glorious Empire running. A standard-issue astromech is on stand-by in case a use for it arises.

On the other side of the desk sits the fifth man. He is pale of face and with nondescript, combed-back hair, and dressed in a rather posh version of a Coruscanti academic’s vestcoat and tie.

“I have to admit,” Frank Randall says. “I’m not entirely sure why you’ve called me here again, General.”

General Thomas waves one gloved hand dismissively through the shadowy light of his office. He’s one of those Imperials; not cruel enough to be ranked as he is, but not smart enough to know he isn’t cruel, either. He sounds very put-upon when he speaks next -- like someone pretending they are not veering conversation toward something that makes them profoundly uncomfortable. His voice rises above the monotone beeping of a chrono mounted on the corner of the desk.

“Worry not, Doctor, worry not -- simply protocol. We are nothing if not thorough here, you must understand. I believe Jack briefed you on your way here, but ah, I do have to ask -- haven’t heard anything from her since our last meeting, have you?”

Frank blinks a few times. He wilts a little, then speaks again with a resigned tone.

“No, nothing at all. I thought we agreed last time that she’s -- gone.” _In the worst sort of way_ , is left unsaid.

“Yes, well,” says the General, a sliver of the masked discomfort leaking into the pudgy lines of his face. “There’s been a -- erm, development.”

“A development, sir?”

“Now I wouldn’t want to pick at any old wounds -- you must understand. Of course this won’t reflect on your _own_ loyalty to your emperor, what with your family’s record of service -- your brother here has quite vouched for you, and we take that sort of thing seriously, Doctor -- but one can never be too careful these days.”

“Of course,” says Frank. His voice has a cold-milk inflection, taking in Thomas’s words without challenge. Like he’s been through it all before, or worst -- actually trusts the man. 

“It’s terrible business all around, Doctor, terrible business, but it can’t be helped. You must understand the prudency of bringing you in for questioning -- you did tell that damned droid to encrypt the comms, didn’t you Foster?”

“Yes sir,” says the Lieutenant, from his place to Thomas’s right.

“Just so, just so. You do understand, Doctor.”

“Yes, of course,” Frank repeats. “But what’s happened?”

“Terrible business.” Thomas sniffs, and taps at the datapad on his desk that had not been noticeable until just now. “But you did say last time that she never gave any reason to suspect her loyalties?”

“ _No_ ,” says Frank again. “General Thomas, please. I hardly understand --”

“She’s been spotted,” says the third man. 

His voice is rather rougher than his superior officer’s and the rest of him, like the datapad, had been oddly shadowy until that moment. He shifts, neck cracking slightly with its movement, jaw hardened. Unsurprising; anyone familiar with the ISB’s offices knows its agents tend toward the more brutish. 

General Thomas, who looks himself unfortunately aware of this truth, turns to frown momentarily at this interjection then faces Frank Randall once more. The chrono’s beeping continues, just loudly enough to be noticeable.

“Yes, just outside the Lothal system. Some miserable little moon on the other side of Jedha, if you can believe it.”

“Hells,” Frank says, mirthless. “Well -- is she alright?”

“Er -- yes.” Thomas’s earlier look of discomfort returns, growing in its apparancy. “She’s travelling with a man. Alderaanian --” he looks down at the datapad -- “freighter pilot, I believe. Broke out of Imperial custody not twelve cycles ago. I dare say, Randall, wasn’t this that boy you arrested last year?”

From behind the Captain’s desk chair, the third man steps forward, stiff shoulders melting out from under the shadowed lighting of the office. While his uniform is as pressed and ordered as that of most ISB agents, there is a shadow around his jaw that smacks of poorly-concealed unkemptness. A faint, cloying smell of perfume follows him -- like Felucia’s purple bulb herbs, but stale -- and he regards Frank with glittery black eyes (Thomas is ignored entirely) one muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Indeed.”

“Blasted one of your probe droids, didn’t you say?”

“Yes,” ground out with minimally reigned impatience. 

“You’re not serious,” says Frank, looking between the two with growing incredulity. When an answer does not appear to be forthcoming, he turns to Lieutenant Foster, whose features have taken upon a slow-growing look of unease complimentary to Thomas’s. He keeps eyeing the third member of their party at covert intervals.

“Yes, yes, terrible business,” Thomas says for the umpteenth time. “Dangerous fellow all around -- blasted Alderaanians -- best to just get rid of the lot, I think --”

“I thought Alderaanians were pacifists, sir,” says Foster, with rather deliberate inflection.

“Organa and his ilk, yes. _And_ they’ve still got their seat in the Senate -- no, it’s the ones in the mountains you’ve got to avoid. Barbaric bunch if I ever saw one. Nearly as bad as the Wookiees --”

“Are you _sure_ it was her?” interrupts Frank, looking, not at Thomas, but at the other man. 

He does not reply directly. Whereas before his jaw clenched with impatience, now there is a glint of what might almost be vindictive pleasure in his eye before it is shuttered neatly away, like a covert vibroblade under a rib. 

“Perhaps,” Frank continues, “she really was kidnapped, and --”

“Oh, she was very much there of her own free will,” says the man smoothly. 

“Jonathan --”

“There’s more.”

“Yes, I was just _getting_ to that,” Thomas snaps, throwing a sour glance to his left. He looks, if possible, even more uncomfortable than before; a damp line of sweat has appeared along his collar, and he clears his throat once, and then twice -- “There were -- witnesses, you see. You must understand, Doctor Randall, this is highly sensitive information -- couldn’t possibly have expected it, what with your affiliations --”

Carefully, he turns the pad in his hand over and passes it down the table. In the background, the beeping of the chrono -- until now mostly muted -- sharpens in pitch and loudness.

“-- and I’m quite sure your own loyalties are not in question,” Thomas continues, rambling, “but off-record, _three_ of our troops were injured -- and resisting arrest is a criminal offence either way, you must know --”

“I don’t understand,” Frank says, looking stupidly at the pad. 

He looks up, almost beseechingly, at the man stood directly in front of him.

“Oh it’s quite simple, little brother” Jonathan Randall says. “She lifted half a market stall into mid air from halfway across the street.” 

Familiar durasteel plating glimmers in the half-light, and the mesh grating of the ventilation system suggests that anything spoken of within these four walls is meant to be absolutely secure information. The chrono is beeping more urgently now -- almost a screech. Over and over and over, so loudly that whatever it is Lieutenant Foster tries to say is inaudible. As though suspended outside of the tableau, Black Jack turns, slate-grey uniform warping and blending with the shadows of the office, and pins his cold glittery eyes on something beyond Frank’s shoulder. 

“Isn’t that right,” he says, “ _Claire_?”

Claire starts awake in the muted darkness of their quarters, her scream caught in her throat. 

For a moment, she thinks she’s forgotten how to breathe. Her heart is pounding so viciously in her chest it feels as though she might have burst something. Her neck aches -- _vindictively_. She can feel sweat sticking her frizzing hair to her temples. Everything is in free-fall, like the blurring colours of a Coruscant speedway, and she always _hated_ those. Her throat closed in panic, she reaches out, haphazardly, with her senses. One of her hands slides under the covers, to press just above her bellybutton.

 _Kriff_ , she says, with her feelings. 

The glowing glow point in the Force that has been growing stronger and brighter for the last four months flutters back at her happily. 

In one simultaneous movement, the universe has stopped and started and left her boneless with relief in its wake. She cranes her neck around to press her face into the bedding.

“I’m a terrible influence,” Claire groans to no one in particular, the panic slowly piecing itself back into something coherent and parsable. She can still see the glitter of predatory black eyes hanging suspended in front of her. “Kriff,” she says again, out loud this time, and breathes, in and then out, before forcing her limbs to unclench. Turning, she locates the noise that dragged her into wakefulness: the comm she left atop her bedside table when she laid down for her nap. It’s beeping rather insistently. Across from her, the other side of the bed is empty. It’s the sort of _lack of_ that tugs at a need nestled deep in her sinew, persistent and sudden. But she’ll attend to that later. 

She rolls over and picks the comm up in one hand, flicking it on.

“Claire here,” she says.

“ _Fair finally,_ ” says Rupert’s voice from the other end. “ _I thought ye might’ve died. Angus is whinging like nae tomorrow an’ Murtagh willnae let me go eat ‘til I got hold o’ ye._ ”

“Has someone _else_ died?” 

“ _Ach, no_. _Some teenagers got caught in a firefight in orbit, an’ the auld coot caught ‘em just afore their ship crashed. They’re with a woman -- sounds like a bounty hunter type, but I havenae seen her meself. Banged up pretty badly, or some’at. Ye should better come take a look, jest in case._ ”

“But it’s Imperial space the whole next parsec over,” Claire says, easing herself into sitting position and rubbing one uncoordinated hand at her gritty eyes. She stops herself before the impulse to rub harder overtakes her; she’s picked up all sorts of bad habits this last year. “What did they think they were doing?”

“ _Weel … they_ were _aboard one’ve those Imp freighters._ ”

“Imperials?” asks Claire, stilling in her movements. Her back has gone straight of its own accord; the shadowy greys of her dream flicker into her field of vision. A sliver of tension ripples down her spine, twinging in the exact spot that has been bothering her for the entirety of the last week. 

“ _No’ exactly,_ ” Rupert says, chuckling a bit. She forces her hands to unclench; they’re not doing anything illegal here. Colum is very meticulous about his mercantile protocols. And Claire herself is eccentric but not unlikeable and certainly not dangerous, _useful_ even, given their lack of M-D droid. Destitute young women are hardly an uncommon occurrence in the Rim.

Even if Jamie _was_ a fool for marrying one.

“What the hells do you mean, _not exactly_?” she says anyway.

“ _They cannae make up their minds on it. Keep bickerin’ amongst themselves.”_

Claire presses two fingers against the bridge of her nose. Already, she can feel a tension headache growing. 

“Any specific injuries?” she asks. 

“ _Broken arm, I think. Och, an’ the woman willnae wake up._ ”

“That’s never good,” Claire mutters, casting about to locate her boots. She never used to take mid-day naps before pregnancy, and she’s come to realize they’re terrible things for keeping one’s effects organized. Briefly, and somewhat traitorously, she wonders what Master Ray would have to say about it. Then she banishes the thought from her mind. “Be there in a few, Rupert.”

“ _Ten-four_ ,” says the voice on the comm cheerfully. “ _Oh, by th’way, I saw D by the hangar a few minutes ago. Fraser must be back then.”_

 _Kriff_ , she thinks again, but it’s the good kind this time around. There’s a swoop of relief that comes out with it. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in her, which would account for that interminable twinge. 

_“ … So I’ll jest be gettin’ tae my lunch, then._ ”

“Yes -- yes, please, go ahead. Thanks, Rupert.”

The comm clicks off; Claire sighs.

Her shoulders have sagged down like wilting bachani leaves, still fragile from earlier and aching with the aftershocks of that bloody nightmare. Slowly, she brings her forehead down to press against her fingers. She’ll allow herself another few moments before getting up and rooting around properly for those blasted boots, she thinks. Maybe more than a few. Maybe she’ll lie down again.

“ _No_ , thank you,” Claire says, pinching her own leg. She stretches -- first her shoulders then her toes -- and she’s ready to look around the room again. Everything’s relative, Claire has decided. It’s larger than what she used to have -- the room, that is -- and smaller than what she used to have before that, and larger than what she had before _that_ \-- 

Constantly in flux, constantly in cycles. 

Claire frowns. She hasn’t thought about the Force in years and now within only two it seems to constantly be at the forefront of her mind, connected to everything, even the lopsided bunk nailed into the wall that’s developed an indentation of her arse over the last six months like a cheerful reminder that things are momentarily constant. Hoisting herself to her feet, she pads across their quarters, over to the small dresser that stands by the sliding door leading to the refresher. It’s not a pull-out, like the one on the _Fox_ , and can house more than Claire actually owns, but it’s made of carved wood and used to belong to Jamie’s mother. She knows he moved it from the freighter onto his uncle’s sublight carrier about a week after they first docked. Carefully, she _clicks_ the top drawer open and pulls out her compact M-D kit, placing it on the top beside the heap that is her own belt, sitting beside an old vibroblade and the faded crimson trimming of Jamie’s spare jacket.

 _She lifted half a market stall into mid air_.

The dream’s infrastructure ricochets like a blaster bolt through her mind’s eye. Claire gasps, squeezing her eyes shut, and braces herself against the dresser.

It’s not a memory; she was never in that room, privy to those conversations. She’s sure it’s all true-to-life -- can imagine the stupidly trustful tilt of Frank’s head, and the dismissive wave of Thomas’s hand, and the unspoken snarl in Black Jack’s mouth. She can picture it all, beat for beat, and there’s a painful little spot between her shoulder blades that _knows_ it could easily be the truth, if not something very close to it.

But she wasn’t _there_. She was halfway across the galaxy sobbing her heart out in the cramped hull of an orange-striped YT-11 freighter. And it’s not exactly a vision of the future. 

“ _Vision of the future_ ,” Claire mutters derisively, once again to no one in particular. “Because you’ve had _so_ many helpful ones of those lately, Beauchamp.”

Something sharp and painful and metallic runs right over Claire’s foot.

“ _Ow_!” she says loudly, grabbing one hand onto the dresser and the other over her stomach. At her feet, a tiny little square-shaped AD-S0 unit chitters. “ _Adso_ ,” she grits out. “I can be mordant if I want to be, you bloody nuisance.”

Claire’s droid emits an unimpressed purring sound and spins itself in a little circle before nudging her foot again, this time blessedly with less force.

“What? Do _you_ know where my boots are?” Another two insistent taps. “No, I haven’t the time to tune you up right now. Go bother Donas, you’re very good at that. Rupert said they’re back, you know.”

Adso whines, whirling around and rolling happily towards the door. He smacks into it when it doesn’t open, bouncing backwards a little and skidding across the floor, then rights himself and sits absolutely still, as though pretending that his moment of indignity never happened. Claire narrows her eyes. There are her boots, conveniently propped up beside the door key, and just beside them, a worn cloth bundle she hasn’t seen in … a while.

She marches over and grabs the boots with some difficulty, then sits down on the bed so she can put them on. She looks up.

“Put that back where you found it,” she says.

Adso chitters in protest.

“ _Yes_ ,” Claire says, “you do know what I’m talking about. You don’t even know what it is, you little gundark.” There’s a sharp flutter in the Force, centered from within Claire herself, and her scowl deepens. “ _You_ can mind your business too,” she tells her barely-swollen belly. “You’re not even born yet. I told you, I don’t have time for this. Someone’s been hurt.”

Adso makes a small chirp of dismay.

“Yes, it is terrible news. I’ve got to go now. _Behave_ , please.”

Claire swipes one hand through her tangled hair and pushes herself to her feet. Grabbing her M-D box and trying to smooth out her slept-in tunic, she makes her way out of the small quarters and into the hallway. Medcenter first, she decides, and then she’ll have to find Jamie and make sure he’s still in one piece -- lived experience suggests the very likely possibility of the alternative -- _secondarily_ make sure the _Fox_ is still in one piece, as that will no doubt lend a clue to any minor injuries he might be hiding, and _then_ spend the rest of the day fighting with herself over whether or not she should tell him about her dream.

Not dream -- vision. _Not_ vision. Claire groans internally, clutching her M-D kit closer to herself and wishing she could somehow block this all out. She had done it, _before_. 

Not blocked out, exactly, but gone altogether -- nothingness. She hadn’t felt a thing in years. It had almost been like the connection had faded into oblivion, dissolved into the aether of space over time leaving behind only a small pressure lodged atop her lungs that hurt terribly if she poked at it but otherwise didn’t trouble her too often. 

That’s a much nicer way of thinking about it than how Geillis would put it. Nothing was _severed_ , Claire thinks stubbornly. Too violent. She’d put violence behind her. It just -- went away. 

It had all been _surely normal_ until it quite suddenly hadn’t.

“I don’t want to think about Geillis right now,” she says aloud, before realizing that’s the fourth time in the last ten minutes she’s spoken to an empty room. 

_Fantastic_ , she thinks acerbically. Now she’s started talking to herself, on top of everything else. The baby’s presence flutters again, and she feels a lump creep into her throat.

_It’s fine. It’ll be perfectly fine. You got away, Claire. They won’t find you here._

She shakes her head and refocuses on where she’s walking. _Leoch One’s_ an older model Alderaani ship, never quite refurbished, so it has a brown-brass interior that gives off an aura both cozy and claustrophobic at once, and plenty of winding hallways that are easy to get lost in. 

It’s very different from the polished grey of an Imperial star destroyer; Claire clings to it.

She’s just decided that she might have actually gotten lost -- she definitely passed that airlock sign at least thrice -- when she turns a corner and hears the bustle of people ahead. The lights have changed as well -- brighter, the white industrial stuff Murtagh hates so much -- so she’s close to the hangar bay, she thinks. She moves to cross the gangway over to the bay doors, knowing the medical facility’s just on the other side, when she hears voices in the tiny little alcove leading away from her dim hallway.

She freezes. The low, familiar tenor would be unmistakable even if she was not Claire, and it not increasingly more precious to her than she’d ever imagined possible.

“-- only _doing_ it to protect the people in my care!”

“Aye, but I expected ye tae be less daft about it than this.”

“If there’s a chance I can secure a pardon --”

“Ye’d do it through _official_ means. Ye’d make a deal with the Empire, an’ leave the rest behind ye! How is that sae hard to understand?”

“ _No_.” Jamie’s voice is bordering on a growl. Claire doesn’t budge from her spot around the corner, but she can picture him clearly: raised chin, hard lines of shoulders and back. That careful, controlled way about him that he uses to smother some profound emotion or other. She started feeling the nuances of his Force signature early on -- _after_ \-- but it has gotten stronger more recently, and it burns now, with a cold-hot fierceness that is both constant and unpredictable at once. “I will _not_ do that, Uncle, ye can’t --”

In contrast to his nephew, Colum MacKenzie is, despite the hushed bark in his voice, level and unyielding at the edge of Claire’s senses. 

“But ye’ll trust the word of these _Rebels_?”

“I didna say I trusted ‘em. We only thought I might _talk_ to them, as Dougal suggested --”

“My brother is a _fool_ ,” Colum hisses, “an’ Gerrera is dangerous. I willnae have ye endangerin’ yerself _or_ this enterprise when if ye’d only set aside yer pride --”

“It insae about pride! I told ye, I’m trying tae protect my family --”

“Ye stopped givin' a thought tae that when ye took up wi’ the strange girl ye found in the gutters of the Outer Rim!” 

Claire swallows, throat dry. The threads of energy permeating the hallway snap harshly, as though hit.

“And you have? Packin’ up shop an’ spendin’ all yer time out here? As if you give a _shite_ about _family_ \--”

“Do not _test_ me, James,” Colum says, with a new, ice-cold, silken thread in his voice. Claire’s fingers press against the ridge of her M-D kit so hard that she can see them going white. “Ye think I dinna ken there’s somethin’ more to her than what ye’ve told me? Hm? I’m no’ the senile auld man the Empire likes to believe me, boy. Now, I ken ye were actin’ out of honour when ye marrit her, so I didnae turn ye away when ye came to me. But if you think fer a _moment_ \--”

“I _married_ her because I love her.” 

There’s a creak, no doubt from the movement of Colum’s poorly-attached old-school prosthetics, as though he has taken a reluctant step back. Jamie continues, a sliver of something new creeping into his voice. 

“So if ye think ye’ll be threatening --”

“I am no’ threatening anyone,” Colum interrupts coldly. “I’m simply tellin’ ye my terms. I dinna care why ye did what. If ye wish tae take up wi’ the feckin’ Rebellion, in any way at _all_ , ye can pack yer bags an’ ship an’ that ghastly wee droid of yers, an’ leave.”

She hears a muffled _clank_ , and the started rusty noise of stuttering footsteps. Jamie inhales sharply, and there is another set of feet, booted this time, following.

“Colum, ye don’t understand,” Jamie starts again, the earlier thread of urgency blooming. It’ll surely be noticeable to Colum, Claire thinks. “There’s more tae --” 

“More tae what? Hmm?”

“I -- I can’t _explain_ , I jest --”

“I assure ye,” says the older man in a harsh whisper, “that there are no explanations necessary. I willnae have that business anywhere near my ship. Ye hear me? That’s my final word on it.”

The footsteps continue, louder and echoing as they get to the end of the hallway. Claire hears the distant _swish-bang_ of a hatch closing.

She can’t see him, still. But every part of her can feel it as he presses one fist against the creaking hallway wall and lets his forehead fall against it with a muffled _thump_.

Claire’s fingers are trembling with force of suppression. The comm on her hip _beeps_ softly, and she startles, grimacing. That lump in her throat has returned full-force. But there is no time for it now. _Later_ , she thinks, as she did when she woke, and wanted nothing but his arms around her. They’ll have time later. She takes a deep breath, and straightens her shoulders, and continues to make her way to the medcenter.

“No -- _no_ \-- leave me _alone_ , you horrid thing! I demand to speak to whomever’s in charge! This isn’t _legal_!”

“Y-y-you’re not _helping_ , John!”

“ _Ow_! Whose kriffing droid is this?”

The medcenter appears to be in chaos. 

Well -- _chaos_ is a term rather overwrought for it. More a poorly organized muddle of lamenting voices, the odd flailing limb, the unmistakable outline of an unconscious body -- 

And at the center of it all, Jamie’s overlarge, ill-humoured astromech.

“ _Donas_ ,” Claire says sharply, resisting the urge to press her fingers against her temples again and wondering what entity in the galaxy has determined that she shall be spending her entire day telling off errant droids. “Stop electrocuting that boy. Don’t you have anything useful to do?” 

Donas makes an affronted _whubbing_ noise and whirls his dome in angry protest. Claire refuses to back down. 

“ _Yes_ , I am the boss of you, mister. Go double-check the _Fox’s_ coolant system. What are you doing in here, anyway?”

The clunky black-plated droid flashes his buttons and chuffs one wheel shaft against the floor. The damn thing has always felt more large animal than droid, Claire thinks. He whines, rather pointedly, and it’s very annoying that he’s right; she _had_ said before that he might come by the medcenter from time to time if they were to be friends. 

“Not so you could terrorize my patients,” she tells him now, frowning. “If you _must_ stay, go stand in that corner and be very quiet.” She sets her M-D kit down on the side table; Donas _whubs_ at her angrily, but acquiesces. 

“That thing’s a menace,” says the young man subject to said terrorism, wide-eyed and holding one arm at an awkward angle against his side. He has a slightly split lip, and moppish light brown hair that is longer on the top but cropped neatly at the sides. His cheeks are flushed. Whether from droid-attack or general distress it’s unclear, but aside from the arm and lip, he seems unharmed.

Still -- there could be internal injuries. And someone will have to tell her where they stowed the unconscious woman.

“Oh, he’s fine once you get to know him,” Claire says absently, clicking the kit open and taking out her scanner and bacta spray. “If you try zapping me on your way across the room, I _will_ smack you,” she adds, as Donas trundles his way over to sit by their smaller-model bacta tank; he blows a raspberry at her. “I can give you something for your arm," she tells the boy, "but I’ll have to check all three of you for internal injuries. I was told there was a woman with you?”

Silence -- the floundering sort. Someone coughs, a familiar sort of sound that has Claire tensing her jaw without meaning to.

“N-no," says the girl's voice. Her stutter seems to become more pronounced the more nervous she becomes. It's one of those tiny details she has grown accustomed to cataloguing and filing away, a skill forged undeliberate and then honed by Jamie's playful shrewdness, existing almost entirely as a subconscious challenge of wit. "I m-mean, yes. But sh-she wasn’t _with_ us. Sh-she only, w-well she helped us after w-wer were at-t _acked_.”

Claire looks up sharply, and the first boy adds,

“By pirates.”

“Th-those m-men who brought us indoors put her b-behind the plasti-shield over there.”

Now that she has a clear sight of all three of them, it’s even more obvious than before that they are, first: ridiculously young; second: seem fairly unscathed; but third: altogether rattled. They’re three youths -- two boys and a girl, all human, fair-haired and fair skinned. The girl in particular looks very out of her depth, and is holding her person tightly folded against herself in a way that makes her seem smaller than she likely actually is. She’s clinging to the second boy’s hand so tightly that both sets of fingers are slowly turning purple. The first boy, in contrast, is the tallest of the three and valiantly sat in some semblance of a self-assured, straight-backed position. All three are dressed down in what seem to be deliberately colourful jackets and trousers. An obvious repurposing of outdated styles; she recognizes the metallic glint of the girl's collar, and the trimming along one trouser leg. Coruscanti high society has never been subtle about their fashion. Claire can remember some mid-world Governor's wife with that exact collar, not three years ago.

Hells -- has it been so short a time?

But it's irrelevant now. She can see their singed knees, obvious blast marks and discoloured boots too new to be owned by anyone truly experienced in space. They’re not armed, but she figures the lads must have claimed their weapons upon entry. That -- and she can’t help but think they wouldn’t know much about the right end of a blaster, either way.

Only Claire is quite suddenly not thinking about their boots or weapons or youthfulness, or even her own unmoored, confused reality. She is instead staring at the second boy, who is paler faced than his fellows, with wide eyes that are staring at Claire in surprised recognition, a straight, genteel nose, and that altogether unnervingly familiar cough.

“ _Alex_? What in the name of the _Universe_ are you doing here!”

Alex Randall grimaces slightly and looks as though he is trying his best not to shrink into the wall. 

“Erm -- hullo, Aunt Claire.”

Reality spins in zero gravity. It feels for a few beats that all she is capable of doing is stare at him stupidly. Perhaps it is the _Aunt Claire_ that has truly thrown her, or perhaps simply the familiarity of his face, both reluctantly dear and unwittingly fearmongering. He stares back, a tight, uncertain look upon his features that makes the ends of Claire’s fingers numb. A lock of floppy, fair hair falls over his forehead, boyish in a way unlike either of his brothers. She tries sucking in a particularly careful breath, then steps forward, and with fumbling movements scrabbles to get ahold of the nearest semi-large object and positions it lopsidedly in front of her midriff. 

The tangled palstisteel arms of the bacta tube _boing_ around rather lamely in midair. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks again, trying very hard to keep her voice even. 

_Foolish_ , she thinks immediately; he could very easily ask the same thing of _her_. What must it look like -- her being here? Is she a flake? A harlot? A traitor? A --

She stops. She does not want to contemplate the last. Better that he see her barely showing and believe her the worst kind of unfaithful than -- that.

“Er -- well, we ran away, you see.”

A weak cough bookends the tail of the statement.

Claire feels her spine, rigid and painful in its incomprehension.

“ _We_ did not run away,” says the other boy, tossing a scowl in his friends’ direction. “ _You two_ are not thinking straight, and _I_ came along to stop you from doing something stupid. But then our hyperdrive was blown out by pirates, and now we’re bloody _here_." 

“Oh, c-come of-ff it John,” groans the girl, who is still trembling like a leaf but sounding remarkably self-assured in her dismissal. “Y-you got on the sh-ship with us acci _dent_ ally --”

“Because I was trying to stop you!”

“N-no one _asked_ you to!” 

“You _stole_ a ship. That in itself is a criminal offence!”

“Y-you can’t _steal_ a ship that belongs t-to your g-g-odfather, and anyway th-this is the _r-right_ thing t-t-to _do_.”

“It is _not_ , Mary! I’m a loyal subject of the Empire, thanks --”

“Don’t be silly John --”

“And I am taking you both back home before we get caught and people come to terrible conclusions --”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Claire says loudly, willing her voice to cut through the bickering. Murtagh says she could have been an army general in a different life. She tries, most always, not to think of the bitter almost-truth of his joking, admiring words. “Now. As I am a healer by profession, it is my responsibility to see to your injuries in a timely manner. Would it be possible for this dispute to be put on _hold_ until I can set this young man’s arm and see to the woman who helped you?”

Silence does not quite descend but the argument stutters to a stop. The third young man -- John -- seizes this opportunity to look at Claire beseechingly.

"Look -- you know Alex! If you know Alex you can help us go back."

“Not go _back_ ,” cries Mary, as if only just realizing something. “Maybe you can help us! W-we’re t- _trying_ t-to join the Rebels.”

Both boys make alarmed noises, and Mary, in response, seems first to squeak with fright then lift her reedy chin in defiance. From his corner, Donas emits a rather alarmed _whub_ of interest. “Keep your _voice_ down,” Claire hisses, before she can stop herself, dropping the ridiculous tubing and stepping in closer. 

"But --"

“Are you out of your _minds_?” There is the stale echo of blaster fire ringing in Claire's ears. She wants at once to grab them by their collars and shake them and sob with relief.

“We're _serious_ , Aunt Claire,” Alex says. John, for once, does not jump in to correct him, but only looks aggrieved. 

“I -- don't _call_ me that. _Alex_ \--,” Claire gets out, perhaps imagining that she might communicate something unsaid through sheer force of widened eyes, or draw on some immutable power of once-friendliness.

“Isn’t that what you did?” He has a careful look on his face, like he’s trying to get through a particularly hard paragraph in datapad. It’s made more unsettling still by the familiar tilt of his chin -- that slight haughtiness that seems engrained in every Randall, but here, it’s turned to youthful stubbornness. He coughs again, a bit more loudly this time. She inhales sharply, and tries not to jerk away on pure instinct. “I know you and Frank weren’t -- doing well. Claire.”

__

She wants desperately to say something. She _wants_ \-- but her words feel tangled up in her throat, sludge-like and blurred. She thinks suddenly of Jamie, arguing furiously with his Uncle in the passageway. She thinks of her dream. She thinks of that market stall, and the _Fox_ , and the awful feeling, like something big and out of her control has been unlocked. 

__

She thinks of Alderaan, still verdant and alive.

__

_Kriff_ , Claire feels, full-bodied, for the umpteenth time that day.

__

“No,” she says aloud, as firmly as possible. “I absolutely did not. This ship is a completely lawful merchant’s port, and you _must_ be very careful what you say out loud.”

__

“Well, that’s it then,” John says immediately. “Come on. I’m calling my brother and we’re going home.”

__

“You are going _nowhere_ until I check you each for injuries,” Claire snaps. “Besides which you haven’t a ship. I suppose we could find you one -- and maybe some proper clothes, as well -- and -- well -- I cannot believe how foolish you’ve all been. Alex, I’m sure if you went back home and said that you’d only --”

__

“No!”

__

“But we’re not _going_ back.”

__

“It’s _awful_ back there! Everything _everywhere_ is so awful. Half the holonet channels are being blocked, and there's a blockade in the lower levels -- we found out because John and I tried to sneak out clubbing --"

__

"N-Nobody takes either of us seriously -- they won't let Alex join the Academy!"

__

"-- and last month Mary's Aunt Louise went missing --"

__

"Even John can feel it. It's like this thick awful presence that doesn't want you to do anything worth doing, Au -- Claire." 

__

"W-we thought," Mary finishes tremulously, "that maybe -- m-maybe if we -- we could fight. We could _d-do_ something.” Beside her, John is looking pale and frightened, but does not dispute his friends' words.

__

_We could do something_.

__

And isn’t that the million credit question. _Can_ one even _do_ anything?

__

Claire feels sometimes as though the last ten years have proven nothing but the opposite. She swallows, and resists the urge to press her hand over her belly.

__

“This is not a conversation I’m having right now,” she manages. “I have to go see to that woman, then I’ll fix your arm -- is she right around the screen?”

__

“Y-yes,” says Mary, sounding nearly tearful as Claire wipes her hands and keys the code to the med-shield. “Sh-she just showed up out of n- _nowhere_. J-John thought sh-she was an apparition.”

__

The pale semi-transparent privacy shield _whooshes_ open to the renewed sounds of the teens’ bickering -- John most certainly did _not_ think so -- and Claire steps forward, intent for the second time that day to conduct a detached, clinical examination, administer aid, then go about her business.

__

The woman laid prone on the medcenter cot is dressed in what Claire can only assume is bounty hunter’s garb, with armoured plating across her breast and scratched vambraces over her wrists and elbows. Beneath that is a thick, temperature-proof sort of fabric that Claire remembers vaguely seeing once in a bazaar on Nal Hutta, rare and certainly not inexpensive. It’s wrapped around her, tunic-like, and decorated along the edges with metallic figurines that look uncomfortably familiar to animal skulls. Her face has been covered by a helmet -- this, too, is more theatric than serviceable, with carved horns adorning its brow and the visor shaped such that the wearer appears to have glowing green eyes. It’s got a respirator built into the mouth area and a simple clasp around the neck. There are empty holsters lining her legs, where Rupert and Angus must have taken her weapons. 

__

She has a slight figure, visible even under her clothing, and for whatever reason Claire notes this as something significant. Burn marks trace her armor’s plating, and one ankle seems twisted out of place.

__

“But it’s the internal injuries that are the worst,” Claire mutters to herself, the continued sounds of teenaged argument playing backdrop, as she reaches over to gently unclasp and remove the helmet.

__

_I’m afraid she didn’t make it, Claire. Though I can hardly understand why you’d be concerned -- it’s not like the two of you were close friends. Not at all the type of woman I’d like you associating with, anyway._

__

For the third time that day, Claire feels like she is in free-fall.

__

“ _Geillis_?” 

__

__

Claire makes it the rest of the way back to their quarters feeling like her mind has been replaced by those disgusting cloud-candies she used to sneak from Master Ray’s quarters. She had applied bacta patches to Geillis’s more apparent injuries -- the gash on her forehead and singed arm -- and hooked her up to a nutri-drip to make sure her vitals stay stable. The inevitable concussion from surviving a hyperdrive short and subsequent explosion can’t really be dealt with until Geillis wakes up.

__

_Geillis might wake up. Geillis is alive_.

__

“ _Karck_ ,” Claire says, hoping to shake things up a bit in her repertoire of profanity. 

__

Probably, Claire thinks, somewhere out in the vast reaches of holonet space, there is more than one catalogue on why one musn’t spend their entire first trimester serenading a baby with curse words. Probably even more so when one is Force sensitive. She remembers, with an uncomfortable flash of colour, how Master Hildegard used to insist that they speak to the medicinal seedlings kept in the halls of healing with _only_ gentleness. 

__

_All living things can to some degree feel your feelings, padawan_. 

__

That was one of the old woman’s favourite lines. Hildegard was one of their best healers. Claire had wanted nothing more than to be just like her -- her firm, assured hands, her careful manner, her straightforward way of problem solving. 

__

Life was bloody well much easier when she couldn’t remember these things.

__

She shoulders her way into their quarters on wobbly legs and fumbles with the keypad to close the door. Frowning, she looks down; Adso never moved the little cloth bundle on the floor. Picking it up in deliberate movements, Claire clicks open the bottommost drawer of Jamie’s mother’s dresser and shoves the whole thing as far back as it can go, deliberately ignoring the obvious curve of the hilt under her hands. Then she rights herself, and looks in the direction of the ‘fresher. Even if she couldn’t hear the sound of running water, the sight of his clunky boots lined neatly by the bunk and the lingering smell of hyperspace travel and engine oil would give away the fact that he’s come back to their bedroom.

__

She unties the clasp of her tunic and shrugs out of her boots and leggings, then pads her way into the ‘fresher, squeezing behind the sliding door that has always been a touch too small for her and comically too narrow for Jamie’s broad frame. One of many, tiny details that make _Leoch One_ feel unanchored -- the sort of place that is not _their own_. The _Fox_ is small and cramped but somehow feels built for them. And even then -- she knows Jamie misses his sister. 

__

Letting the ‘fresher door skitter shut behind her, she dumps her dirty clothes into a pile in the corner and pauses in front of the mirror, scowling a little at the tangled nest of her hair. It hangs in uneven clumps around her face, some curls long and loose and others coily and ringletted, and she makes a face at herself, pulling her chapped lips back and sticking her tongue between her teeth. When she was on Coruscant she’d taken to straightening it. Now, there is never the time. Or the inclination. 

__

Claire rubs lightly at her forehead and climbs into the shower cubicle, feeling like she’s trying to leave something behind on the other side. 

__

It’s too cold for her liking, like it always is when Jamie sets the temperature gauge, but she doesn’t really mind. Jamie is facing the wall. His usually sure hands are fumbling with the clasp of the shampoo bottle, and he’s muttering incomprehensibly to himself. Small droplets of water dribble over his shoulders and down over the bared wings of his shoulder blades. They trace a path over broad planes of muscle and skin that’s pinkened from the shower’s relative warmth, healthy and alive. And, overlaid upon that in blunted-knife juxtaposition, the blackened pinpricks along his spine that are the probe droid’s handiwork, and the lattice-like webbing of electrocution scars, old but probably never capable of fading. 

__

“ _Mac na_ g -- fer _Force’s_ sake.” 

__

She thinks the shampoo bottle has refused to open a third time. Taking pity on him, she reaches around his back, wordlessly, and takes the bottle. It’s like she’s pulled a pin out of a complex machine: his body slumps in one fluid movement against the cubicle wall, half-turning around and angling toward her.

__

The bottle opens with a faint _click_.

__

“Unbelievable,” Jamie says.

__

“It needed a gentle touch,” Claire says practically, squirting some into her palm. Then, “What is this stuff? It smells awful.”

__

“ _Awful_ , she says.”

__

“ _Yes_ , thank you. Like those off-brand Felucian perfumes.”

__

“Ye’ve been tae Felucia?” Jamie asks. He sounds genuinely curious, and she swallows; sometimes it feels like they’ve known each other all their lives. Other times -- sudden and unexpected, irrational as that may be -- it feels like they’re going to be still learning new things about each other until they’re old and grey and forgetting their own names.

__

She rubs her palms together and reaches up to smear the shampoo into his hair, in firm, practical movements. “I’ve been around. But that’s alright -- I shouldn’t be complaining.”

__

“Ye can complain all ye like about the shampoo. What was it like?”

__

“The shampoo?”

__

“Felucia, Sassenach.”

__

“Colourful. Smelly. It was a long time ago.” She rubs her fingers back and forth and creates a lopsided peak of foam and slicked red hair. Her hands drop back to her sides. “There,” she says. “My handsome man has returned to me.”

__

Jamie snorts. It feels a bit as though they’re cocooned away from the outside world here, and Claire revels in it. Real water showers tend to do that in a way the sonic stuff on the _Fox_ just can’t achieve. It’s got a muted sort of intimacy to it. She feels like she can forget about her living, breathing friend, and the nail-splitting memories that have been echoing through her consciousness since she ran.

__

Since she ran, and met Jamie. 

__

She watches those sharp blue eyes of his identify something in her face that she herself probably hasn’t figured out yet.

__

“What’s happened?” he asks, quietly.

__

Claire drops her eyes to the spot on his shoulder with the faded blaster scar and shakes her head minutely. Already her hair has become waterlogged and she can feel it dragging over her shoulders. Jamie steps closer, one hand slipping around her waist to cup against her spine; the other stops just above her hips, fingers splaying such that his thumb rests gently over her midriff. It’s such a tiny movement, but carefully protective all the same. She remembers Colum’s canny voice and something in her throat constricts. She swallows again. She doesn’t want to bring up what she overheard earlier, necessarily. 

__

“Not now,” she says. Her voice is very quiet.

__

“Claire,” he starts. Up close, he looks so tired. She could feel it earlier -- can feel it, sort of -- the exhaustion hanging around him. It’s partly her fault, she knows, and she hasn’t yet come up with a solution. She shakes her head more obviously this time, and scoots herself closer and says,

__

“Say something terrible, so I can be properly distracted.”

__

“Hmm.” She can hear his heartbeat even though her ear isn’t fully pressed against his chest, and feel the feather-light touch of his hands down her sides. He looks for a moment as though he is giving it a lot of thought, then says, in a voice low and right next to her ear, “If I kent what wonderful things gettin’ ye pregnant would do tae your arse, I’d’ve done it a lot sooner.”

__

She presses her face against the damp skin of his collarbone to muffle her laughter -- and there is a keener prick beneath it, at how much this baby is already beloved, at how out of the realm of planning and possibility its existence has been -- and she can sense him grinning in turn, both in the Force and against the crown of her head. She can feel, too, the arousal between them, warmer than the shower and coming to life. But it’s the muted, simple sort. The residual tar of her earlier nightmare is far away and incapable of entering this little space.

__

She wants his arms around her, she thinks. Like she did that morning. It’s a sharp thought, strong enough but stronger still with the memory of his overheard conversation. Instead of moving, she pulls away, one slick wet hand moving up to cup Jamie’s cheek.

__

He’s looking down at her, still with that ridiculous shampoo spike in his hair, usually so bright but darkened in the shower’s spray. Droplets of water are clinging to his eyelashes.

__

“You make me feel safe,” she says. She, and her decade of daily, hourly fear. “Jamie. You know that, right?”

__

A slight flicker of surprise in his presence -- a twitch of uncertainty in his brow. 

__

“Claire,” he breathes, but it’s not like it was before. She is both learning and learned, with him. Claire lets her hands drop and flatten, pushing them up over his shoulders. She cranes her neck upward to press a quiet, open-mouthed kiss over the pulsepoint in his neck, leisurely, almost, but with deliberate movements. He's warm beneath her -- warm to her touch and in the Force, a sort of warmth that was difficult to find in the galaxy even Before. She feels his whole signature sigh, and a slight shudder of released tension beneath her. His hands around her waist tighten. _Good_ , Claire thinks. For a moment, they sway together, there under the shower spray. Then she pulls away, cheek slippery and pressing into his shoulder, and says, mumbled,

__

“I’ll tell you later, alright?” 

__

“I ken. I will, too.”

__

“Good,” she says, aloud this time.

__

Sometimes, when it’s just the two of them like this, Claire feels as though she can feel every corner of the Force at her fingertips, open and flowing in a way that was unreachable to her even as a child. She still hasn’t figured out why. Heart in her throat, she rises on her toes, so she can kiss him properly, as she’s been wanting to all day.

__

**Author's Note:**

> the motif in the song "come back oh lover, if just for a day, to turn december once more into may" is, in MY mind, referring in the context of this fic to claire's relationship with the force. here is the link to the full song: https://open.spotify.com/track/17zuqDyGtuHQbIqIBINCvs?si=365caa577d714f9f
> 
>  **misc notes**  
>  \- the scene with alex and mary and john was. absurdly difficult for me to write for no reason at all so i apologize if its a mess. additionally ive not had much of a chance to read through this with a fine-tooth comb as school has been very busy, so forgive any dumb errors.  
> \- i know that in canon john never interacted with mary and alex, but they are roughly all the same age and i think in this context it was fun to throw them all together. i WILL say that my grasp of johns character is not intimate and for anyone who really loves him, as i know many do, this is not going to be a fic that features him (or any of the teens) prominently.  
> \- i know a lot of this fic is predicated on a basic understanding of the star wars universe, but i hope its enjoyable even without that context. ive taken elements of the movies, the fallen order video game, and the rebels tv show to frame claire and jamie's little story within this verse, but hopefully knowledge of the deep lore (lol) is unnecessary. i will say that knowing of order 66 will make some of the angst and backstory spicier. let me know if u have any questions!  
> \- what IS the backstory? all will be revealed in chapter two  
> \- i think this is the most plot i've like, ever written lol  
> \- most importantly, i hope everyone has as much fun with this as im having, and that you're staying safe and warm and loved this winter
> 
> edit: forgot to mention yesterday but geillis's bounty hunter costume is directly inspired by valka's outfit in how to train your dragon 2, courtesy of zainab's big brain. incidentally, diana gabaldon wants what httyd2 has


End file.
